Portrait of Seduction (13 page)

Surely Oliver had been gone a year.

Greta looked up from the bedside. Klara, Ingrid’s handmaiden, ushered Jutta inside and quickly shut the door. Jutta carried a pot of boiling water, her hands wrapped in towels and her face flushed from the steam. “Over there.” Greta nodded to the washstand.

She turned her attention back to the midwife and her patient. Ingrid was wilted, sweating, exhausted. Her water had broken but her body had not fully opened. She could not yet push. The strain of fighting that urge was quickly depleting her.

Greta grabbed the nearest damp rag and spun it in the air, cooling it. Then she patted Ingrid’s face, neck and upper arms. The laboring woman had abandoned her nightgown and wore only a shift, which was plastered to her breasts with water and sweat. Never—not ever—had Greta seen anyone in such a state of wild nudity, but nothing existed beyond their quest to bring that babe into the world.

As another labor pain eased away, Ingrid collapsed back onto limp pillows. Her breaths were shallow and quick. But her respite would be short-lived, as her pains were coming steadily with less than a minute between.

The midwife, a woman of roughly fifty years with stark white hair, shook her head slowly. Worry waited in eyes that had been calm.

Greta had never felt so helpless and forlorn. She swept the damp hair back from Ingrid’s face, admiring her bravery but fearing that it would not be enough.

The door opened with a crash. Jutta and Klara gasped from their place by the washstand, but Greta could have shouted out of sheer relief.

“My dear Lady Venner, how dare you start without me?”

“Tilda,” Ingrid breathed.

Mathilda De Voss shut the door, a medical case in hand. She quickly washed her hands and hurried over to the bed. The same worry filled her eyes, but she radiated a determination that convinced Greta all would be well. Soon. If she had to, Mathilda would good-naturedly berate her best friend to health.

Ingrid weakly held out her hand. Greta eased out of the way as Mathilda took her place.

“I’m here now.” Mathilda pressed the offered hand to her cheek, then gave it a squeeze.

“Tell Christoph…”

“Oh, no you don’t. No goodbye talk. How far along is she?”

The midwife stood away from the bed and wiped her hands on a cloth. “Almost wide enough, but the baby is facing her spine.”

“Well, we can’t let her come into the world face down, can we?”

“Her?” Ingrid said, her voice a whisper. Greta grabbed a cloth from the basin of clean, cool water and pressed it against the woman’s mouth. So prostrated, her grace and elegance gone, she sucked greedily. She was breathless when she had finished. “Please let it be a boy so I won’t have to suffer this again.”

“Nonsense. It will be great fun to see Venner spoil a little girl.” Mathilda wrapped her arm around Ingrid’s shoulders and hauled her into a seated position. “Come now, dearest. On your knees.”

“What? Why?” Ingrid’s head lolled forward. She cried out again as another pain claimed her. “I need to push.”

Greta watched in fascinated horror as Ingrid’s stomach muscles bunched and wiggled. Surely this could not last.

“No, no pushing,” Mathilda said. “Not yet. Over on your knees—there you go. Greta, be a dear and help me.” Together they positioned Ingrid, who continued to cry and gasp, on all fours on the mattress. “Now make fists and push here, along her lower back. Push
hard
.”

A strong impulse to flee grabbed Greta by the throat. This was not her fight. She was a guest in this home, not a midwife’s assistant. But the selfish urge was like the flash of a spark from a night bonfire—bright, then gone. She stepped up to the bed and pressed the knuckles of her fist against Ingrid’s lower back. Watching Mathilda, imitating her, she pushed and kneaded, digging deep.

“Surely, this must hurt,” Greta said.

Ingrid’s groan, however, sounded distinctly like relief. “Don’t stop.”

“It eases the pains,” the midwife said, “but will stall her labor.”

“She needs it stalled if the baby isn’t ready,” Mathilda replied sharply. “Check her,
bitte.
”

Greta’s wrists and forearms began to ache, but she knew it was nothing to what Ingrid endured. She gritted past the discomfort, pushing with bruising force until red welts marred Ingrid’s flesh. Another pain contorted those muscles. Ingrid gasped, then screamed. With nothing else to do but pray, Greta threw her weight into her work.

“The baby has flipped!” The midwife’s worry was replaced by relief. “She’s ready.”

“That’s it, dearest. See? A trick I learned when helping Jürgen deliver Lady von Trammel’s first.”

“Oh, was she ugly and hysterical?” Ingrid gasped as she lumbered onto her back.

“Fantastically so.” Mathilda grabbed one of her hands and nodded for Greta to do the same. “Are you ready, Ingrid? Let’s have done with this. Your young guest here is worried sick. Now…push!”

Oliver was going to take a hammer to Christoph’s kneecaps if the man did not stop pacing.

He leaned back against a settee in the drawing room, watching the frantic nobleman chew the length of the room with rhythmic, ceaseless strides. “Sit, brother. I’m begging you.”

“
Nein, danke.
I claim the right to go mad in my own fashion.”

Oliver shrugged. “With responsibility, my lord, comes privilege.”

The mantel clock chimed five in the morning. Although gritty fatigue itched behind Oliver’s eyes, his several attempts to nap had come to naught. News. Soon there would be news—news that would irrevocably alter the lives of those in his tight, tiny family.

Christoph stopped, his face to the closed door. Slowly, with measured deliberation, he eased onto his knees and knelt his head in prayer.

Helpless. So ridiculously helpless. Oliver was a servant but, like Christoph, he was used to being able to act. Seeing his brother—his friend—so supplicated was a quiet, intolerable torture.

To love a woman as much as Christoph loved Ingrid…what would that be like? At the moment, that emotion appeared a torture as well. Volunteering for such heartache was as foolish as charging an entrenched line of cannons. The good and bad walked together. It seemed a challenge only meant for the strongest, and yet countless people stepped forward each day—to fall in love, to comfort one another, to bear the trials and the tragedies. Oliver, for all the cloying pity he felt for his brother, felt distinctly left out.

He imagined Greta then, as his mind had been repeatedly wont to do. In his mind she was nude, entirely nude, and lounging across a mattress strewn with disheveled bedding. She was pregnant, her full breasts even more lush. She cradled her belly with a look of wonder—eyes soft, mouth easy and loose.
Lieber Gott,
what a sight. What pride he would feel to gaze upon such a sight. What love.

What absolute terror.

He snapped his head up and surged off the settee. Hauling his brother to his feet, Oliver said, “Come with me.”

Christoph shrugged away. “Stop.”

“Absolutely not. This way.”

He dragged Christoph down the corridor and down the stairs. Past the kitchen on the other side of the interior garden and its open arcade, they entered a room designed for the practice of swordplay.

After lighting two lamps, Oliver grabbed the nearest foil. He thrust it into Christoph’s hand and found one for himself. Without waiting for a reaction, he attacked.

Christoph shed his momentarily startled expression, catching Oliver’s blade and repelling the advance. “This won’t help.”

“Quiet. Just fight.”

With a curse that slid toward a growl, Christoph obeyed. He lunged deeply, nearly catching Oliver in the thigh.

They traded parries, circling each other in the shadows. The tinny click of metal against metal filled the gaps left by their erratic breathing. Soon Oliver’s heart was racing for better, more purposeful reasons. How astonishing to let go of that worry and trade it for hard physical exertion. Every time a thought of Ingrid or Greta crept back, he attacked anew.

He used a brief lull to strip his soaked shirt. Christoph did the same, looking wild and unleashed—no longer the starched nobleman.

“And one day you’ll return the favor to me,” Oliver said, panting. “Understand?”

“You’ll have to grow up or no woman will have you.”

Oliver spun, then swiped his foil to the side. “You don’t seem at all upset to have me at your beck and call.”

“I already have a house full of servants. I took you on for a reason.” He jabbed straight ahead, meeting nothing but air as Oliver twisted away. “So you could make something of yourself. But hiding isn’t a profession.”

“You arrogant sod.”

“Just truthful.” Christoph’s face pulled into a tense frown. He thrust downward and caught Oliver’s blade. “You’re a
Vizegraf’
s son, for God’s sake.”

“His bastard, you mean.”

“His mistake. Not yours.”

“Easy for you to say,
my lord.
You were never forced to bear our father’s mistakes like a brand.”

“No, only his responsibilities.”

Foils tangled, they shoved and jostled using brute strength. Sweat dripped into Oliver’s eyes but he would not relent. He would not be beaten. He would not let this be another moment where he got the short stick.

Christoph’s grip slipped. With a cry he stumbled backward, lost his balance and hit the ground. Rather than jump up and resume, as Oliver assumed he would, he slumped over. His shoulders shook. A strangled moan again ripped the night silence.

“She
cannot
die.”

Oliver staggered back. First he let his arm drop until the tip of the foil raked the floor, then his head dropped back. He gulped a heavy swallow and stared at the ceiling, all fight gone. His breathing was just enough to mask his brother’s quiet sounds of distress. But what now? Liquor? A blow to the head? What else could he do to drag Christoph through these hellish hours?

“Oh!”

Oliver jerked his head level. Greta stood in the open doorway. She no longer wore a robe, and the cap was missing. Her hair was a fierce tangle. Blood stained the front of her nightgown.

But her expression…her expression was a wonder of pure joy.

“It’s a boy,” she breathed.

Oliver’s knees went soft.
Thank you, Lord.

Christoph jumped up. He pushed past Greta and tore out into the corridor, bellowing his wife’s name the whole way.

“You were fighting?” came Greta’s quiet question.

Feeling kicked in the chest, Oliver exhaled heavily. “As a distraction. He’s not used to being powerless.”

Her soft, wondrous expression had not eased, but her gaze had settled on his bare chest. The wonder turned to blinking, wide-eyed surprise.

Too much.

Oliver crossed the room in four long strides. He gathered Greta into his arms and bent her body to his. Before thought returned, before good sense could ruin the moment, he kissed her.

Her gasp and brief tension melted away. Every muscle in her body relaxed. He felt hard and drained and half-crazed, but her welcoming heat brought him back to center. She tasted only of Greta. Hot. Salty. A furious pulse thumped in his ears and in his cock as his body channeled aggression and worry into passion.

Seeking more, he pushed his tongue deeply into her mouth. He guided his right hand down her side and back up to her breast. Never had he dared—until that moment when he claimed a full, lush handful of her bountiful flesh. She moaned into him, all words abandoned, only urging him on. Her hands slipped along his bare shoulders. When she could find no purchase along his slick skin, she dug deep with her nails.

She was so soft. His head buzzed with taste and feel and the intimate sounds of their kiss.

Greta slid her hands down his bare chest, gouging and testing along the way. The scrape of her fingernails across his nipples made him suck in a harsh breath through his nose. He kissed her harder, tightened his hand. She reached his waist, then continued around until she grabbed his buttocks. Oliver’s thrust came without thought—she beckoned and he answered. The dance was an easy one, gaining speed with every shift of his hand against her breast. Only a scant layer of wash-softened cloth separated his skin from hers.

But her nightgown had been covered in blood.

Ice seized in Oliver’s veins. He tugged his mouth free and caught Greta’s face in his hands. “Jesus,” he gasped. “Forgive me.”

He planted one last kiss in the middle of her forehead, grabbed his discarded shirt, and tore after Christoph.

Oliver had just finished buttoning his shirt when he reached the hallway outside Ingrid’s bedchamber. Mathilda emerged, quiet as a whisper. She reminded him of a victorious soldier—bedraggled, exhausted and utterly triumphant. That did not preclude him from needing to catch her as she sagged.

“Easy.” He helped her to the floor. “Rest here. Shall I get you water?”

She waved him off. Her head slumped back against the doorjamb. “No, I’m well. Honestly.”

“And Ingrid?”

“Also well.” A tired smile turned up her lips. “The bleeding stopped. She’s conscious and trying to nurse the babe. He’s small but…perfect.”

“Thank God.”

“Amen,” she said with a choked sob. “Oliver, I have never been so worried.”

“Neither have I, but we had nothing on Venner.”

“Poor man. Perhaps now he can breathe again.”

“Only as long as it takes to realize he has a newborn to fret about.”

Mathilda chuckled softly. She heaved a deep sigh and laughed a little louder. Oliver could practically see her regular geniality and resolve seeping back into her.

“Would you like to hear something remarkable?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

Her reply came as a whisper. “You’re an uncle.”

A fierce pain tensed in his chest as the words hit him there, right over his heart.

An uncle.

“Astonishing,” he said. “Truly.”

Mathilda was smiling at him. He blinked and realized what had transpired. For more than a year, she had been the only person to suspect his relationship to Christoph. He had revealed a little too much one evening, hoping friendly conversation would dispel some of her anxiety about Arie. Now, once and for all, he might as well have painted the fact of his bastardy across the nearest width of wallpaper.

“I won’t say a word. You know that. I’m simply glad I could be here and share that wonder with you, if only for a moment.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “Thank you. And for their sakes.”

“She’s my best friend. No thanks required.”

The bedroom door opened. Christoph had donned a shirt, open at the neck, and carried what had to be the world’s smallest human. “Come in. Come meet Franz.”

Oliver awkwardly pulled to his feet, his gaze riveted to the tiny swaddled bundle. He followed Christoph back into Ingrid’s chambers. Jutta and Klara tried to sweep past, their chores finished, but Mathilda stopped them. “If I see either of you working for the next two days, I’ll be most displeased. Go rest. You did beautifully.”

The girls bobbed curtsies. Their weary smiles were bright nonetheless.

Mathilda added, “Oliver, that goes for you too.”

“Back in my house for three hours,” Ingrid said tiredly from her bed, “and she’s already telling the servants what to do.”

“Shall I ask them to return so you can give the order?”

But Ingrid’s eyes had drifted shut. Oliver grinned at Mathilda and moved more deeply into the room. As hot and stuffy as the rest of the house, it in no way hinted at the miracle that had just occurred within its walls. Jutta and Klara must have done a fine job of righting the place after the birth. Clean sheets, clean nightgown, fresh pillows—as if Ingrid had simply lain on the bed and awaited a delivery from some benevolent woodland fairy. But the circles under her eyes and her chapped lips said otherwise.

He found the baby again, so tiny in his proud father’s arms. Christoph could not have appeared more changed. A grin Oliver had never seen shaped his face.

“You’re calling him Franz?” Oliver asked.

“Franz Ludwig Venner.”

“Your grandfather’s name.”

Christoph raised an eyebrow. “That’s right. Would you like to hold him?”

“Passing off your duties so soon?”

His teasing, however, vanished as Oliver took the newborn boy. Practically everything he had ever carried weighed more than the little babe, all squished features and bright, rosy skin. Franz rested quietly. His eyes were tight slits surrounded by puffed, prominent eyelids. He had Ingrid’s perfect bow of a mouth but Christoph’s serious brow.

“Where’s Greta?” Ingrid asked softly. “I should like to thank her.”

“Truly,” Mathilda added. “The midwife’s composure was nothing to Greta’s.”

Ingrid struggled to sit up, only managing the task when Christoph offered his strength. She nestled along his side, using his shoulder as a pillow. “She did not deserve to be so abused by her hosts while here for a visit. I was so scared, but she made me laugh. Kept me calm.” She yawned as if it were the last yawn any person would ever take. “Where is she?”

“I know not.” Oliver returned his attention to baby Franz. “I left her in the training room.”

“The training room?” Mathilda’s eyes narrowed. “Is that where you were? Whatever were you doing there?”

He shrugged. “Doing my job. Our lord and master needed a distraction.”

“A—?” Ingrid sat up and looked squarely at her husband. “You sparred as a distraction?”

Christoph kissed his wife’s crown. “I did.”

“You ridiculous man. It’s a good thing women have the babies.” But her rueful comment did not overcome a hitching sob as she buried her face in Christoph’s chest.

“I should go find Arie,” Mathilda said quietly. “He’ll be anxious too.”

But before she departed, she pulled the swaddling back from Franz’s face and sighed—just a little sound to remind Oliver that she had yet to bear children. How bittersweet such a moment must be. He had been trampled by the evening’s emotions, but his were nothing compared to the others’ stakes.

“I’ll go with you.” He returned the sleeping child to his mother. “If I see Greta, I’ll tell her of your appreciation. But she’s probably returned to her room. It’s nearly dawn and no one slept.”

“Of course,” Ingrid said dreamily, her attention snared once again by her fair-haired son. “She really was a dear, Oliver. So good to me. Never complained or thought of herself.”

Although it warmed him to hear Greta so well spoken of, Oliver could not overcome the feeling that Ingrid was suggesting something in offering such praise.

He stood away from the bed, hands clasped behind his back. “I’m gratified to hear your guest was such help, my lady. But why tell me?”

Ingrid may have been fatigued and wilted, but her eyes still held a vibrant twinkle. “She’s practical, good-natured and unassuming. Sound familiar?”

“Sound…?” He bit his teeth together. All muscles froze in place. Christoph and Mathilda exchanged frowns before turning the full force of two powerful intellects on Oliver.